


Beginning

by consultingidiot (seanceinthealps)



Series: Season Four [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, How Greg and Sherlock met, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Pre-Canon, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seanceinthealps/pseuds/consultingidiot
Summary: My take on the way Lestrade first met Sherlock. This coincides directly with my Season 4 rewrite, and so the hypothermia hottub story from the six thatchers did not happen/exist.This fic is loosely based on the ACD story 'The Adventure of the Reigate Squires'
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Series: Season Four [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655074
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> this was orginally going to be a few chapters within my first insert in my rewriting of s4, but i figured some people like lengthy oneshots so! here it is! a standalone! if you haven't read the other works in this series, i'd really appreciate if you checked them out :)  
> for reference i take sherlocks birthyear as 1977 so he would be 28 here so not all that young on the whole
> 
> \+ forgive any little grammar mistakes and be sure to point them out too :) its almost 2am here and i really haven't got the energy to proofread anymore than i have already

**April 18th 2005**

Sergeant Lestrade sighed into his hand as the red and blue lights flashed from outside. The mangled corpse of a man was lying sprawled on a dusty warehouse floor. Bruising around the mouth and nose, as well as on the man’s wrists were evident; other than that a note had been found in his shabby parka: “Meet at the warehouse at 10. Bring it all with you, unless you want Annie dead”. Written in a strange detached hand, the note was almost illegible but it hardly took much detective work to understand what it meant. The stiff had clearly had something the note-writer had wanted and been threatened for it. Lovely how far some people were willing to go for things.

Anderson, who was on forensics, was watching him intensely - almost with the eyes of a steadfast dog. Lestrade had worked many cases with Anderson on forensics and had come to appreciate his eager loyalty and willingness to comply, despite it being rather off-putting at first.

“So,” Anderson had walked up to Lestrade and the corpse, looking almost a little too eager to impress, “We’ve got what we need to identify him, but I suppose we should find Annie next?”

“Mmh, yes,” Lestrade said, lost in thought, trying to explore the different threads of theories that floated across his mind, “I suppose we should do that once we figure out who this poor bastard is.”

  
The man was positively identified as William Kirwan by his girlfriend who conveniently happened to be named Annie. Lestrade loved it when pieces came together of their own accord, made his job so much easier. Annie was distraught when Lestrade had gently told her of the note and her association to it. Apparently William had become increasingly distant in the past months, and Annie was sure he did not care for her the way she did for him. He inquired as to whether there may be anyone who would want to kill her boyfriend, or whether he was in possession of anything valuable or of importance. She tearfully told him that the William she had known was loved by everyone and couldn’t think of any reason anyone may want to end his life - though she did quietly admit that he hadn’t been telling her much at all in the months leading up to his death.

Stumped, Lestrade decided to leave the station and revisit the crime scene, hoping there was something glaringly obvious he had missed the first time. He brought Anderson, mostly because he wanted company and the man didn’t seem to mind working overtime. The police tape was all still there, but there was no sign of any officers outside the warehouse.

Illuminated by the steady flashing of police lights, the figure of a man was distinguishable pressed neatly up against the brick wall of the warehouse. He was still and unmoving, as though sleeping or dead. Lestrade, dread settling quietly in his stomach, approached the man with Anderson tailing hesitantly behind.

Before being given opportunity to speak, the man’s face jerked towards them, pulling the hood of his coat from his head. Lestrade’s instant relief they did not have another corpse on their hands was quickly lost as a clear look at his face in the red and blue light showed the face of a man who seemed to have risen from a grave. Sweat shone on a pale and dirtied profile with sunken eyes. His slate coloured stare, however, was alert, cold and analytical. Lestrade had a distinct sense he was being judged. 

“Can I borrow one of your phones?” 

The man’s voice was deep yet slightly raspy, as though he hadn’t used it in a while. He spoke with unnerving nonchalance and familiarity, as though he had known them his whole life.

Lestrade was taken aback but Anderson seemed affronted. “We’re not giving you our phones! You’re sitting right outside a crime scene and we don’t-” Lestrade held up a silencing hand, cutting him off. Whilst Anderson was correct in presuming something about this man seemed suspicious, he didn’t want to endanger his opportunity at questioning him. Instead, Lestrade cleared his throat and diverted with another question.

“Why are you here?”

“Looking for a phone, of course,” the man smiled scornfully, “I heard that sometimes two policemen pass by and lend phones out. Apparently I was misinformed, I’ll be on my way now.”

The man staggered slightly as he stood, and pulled his hood back over his matted head of dark curls. Instinctively, Lestrade placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, who whipped around as though scandalised at the contact. His searching eyes slowed, and rested on Lestrade’s face. A question: why?

“Look,” Lestrade sighed, knowing this man was clearly hiding something and may well know something about the murder of William Kirwan, and at this point he was desperate for new leads, “If you agree to come to the station with us and answer some questions, you can borrow my phone.”

The man considered for a moment, before turning to Anderson and pointing.

“Okay, but I don’t like him. Or police cars. I’ll follow in a cab.”

Anderson began to jabber about how it was completely ridiculous for him to be making demands, but Lestrade was wearily aware that this was not a man who would cooperate easily and this was likely to be the best deal they were getting. 

“Fine.”

Lestrade fished through his pocket, unlocked and handed the man his mobile. He was quick to take it and even quicker to type a number and send a text message. A few moments passed before the familiar ping of a text alert ricocheted through the otherwise quiet and abandoned industrial lot. The man deleted both his message and the response before handing the phone back to Lestrade. Too tired to ask why he’d deleted what he’d sent, Lestrade only took his phone back and turned his attention back to the man.

“Scotland Yard. Be there quickly.” 

  
True to his word, the man arrived at the police station an hour later. He seemed more nervous than he had been at the crime scene, eyes fixed firmly onto the white floor as Lestrade led him through to the empty office. They entered, and Lestrade gestured for him to sit as he closed the door behind them.

All of the arrogance the man had displayed at the warehouse was gone now, as he fidgeted anxiously in his seat. Lestrade sat opposite him with his hands folded under his chin. 

“What’s your name?”

“Lestrade”, said the man, focus still on his own hands in his lap. Lestrade inhaled through gritted teeth, his shift was over and he actually wanted to get home by this point.

“Okay, I’m going to assume that isn’t true,” he paused and pressed a hand to his forehead, the picture of an exhausted father of a difficult child. “You clearly don’t want to be here so if you cooperate we could all go home sooner rather than later.”

The man’s eyes looked directly at his. It was disconcerting but unguarded; Lestrade could see hidden vulnerability behind the blue of his iris which felt invasive to discover as it was so clearly not meant to be found. Softly, the man spoke - it was barely more than a whisper and Lestrade almost lost it completely to the air.

“Seamus Holmes?” 

The guarded expression returned, as the man folded his arms and glared at the sergeant.

“Sherlock,” he said, louder this time with a pointed irritation, “S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K.”

“Right, right, okay sorry,” Lestrade raised his hands slightly in burlesque surrender, “And, why were you at the warehouse at that time? You’ve got to understand that seems a little odd.”

“I didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re implying. I was just walking.”

“Walking? There were no main roads or any sign of civilisation anywhere near that location, you’d have had to travel a long way.”

“I don’t like people.”

That, at least seemed to make sense. This man - Sherlock - seemed to be exceedingly antisocial, unwilling and stubborn. It added up that he wouldn’t be keen on human interaction. 

“So why were you sat outside the crime scene, then?”

“Looked interesting.”

“Murder looked interesting to you?”

“It was murder? Yes, definitely then. Have you solved it?”

“No,” Lestrade said slowly, still stunned at the enthusiasm Sherlock had displayed for the murder of another person. Another reason for Lestrade to be weary of this unnerving stranger. “No, it’s not solved.”

“Pity. Let me see what you’ve got.”

“What?”

“Let’s see the evidence. I’m smart, I can help.”

Brow furrowed in thought, Lestrade saw the earnestness in Sherlock’s waxen face. He really seemed to want to assist in the case. Though Lestrade knew it was really not legal and he should not be considering the aid of a man who was still technically a suspect, in some absurd way he trusted him. Hesitantly, Lestrade took his phone from his pocket once more and slid Sherlock the image of the note they had found on William Kirwan’s person.

Sherlock studied it intensely for a couple of moments, before pushing the phone back in Lestrade’s direction.

“Who’s Annie?”

“Girlfriend.”

“I see. Sentiment,” Sherlock seemed disgusted by the prospect, but continued quickly. His words tumbled from his mouth as though racing one another to the open. “So obviously two people wrote the note. One of them was a little hesitant though, probably not too keen on the idea of making threats, or maybe they liked the guy.”

“Sorry two people, how did you…? Are you okay?” Lestrade’s nonplus was briskly interrupted as Sherlock uttered a small, breathless groaning sound. His eyes were clenched shut as a bead of sweat trickled at the side of his temple. 

Recovering quickly, Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s questions entirely, and reached for the phone again.

“Look here,” he said indicating the letters on the screen, “You noticed it looked a little strange, right? If you look at it properly you’ll see it’s two entirely different handwritings - look at the differences in the T’s on the words ‘at’ and ‘the’. One of them has the hook at the bottom, the other does not. Looks to me like they alternated between words.”

Lestrade could only stare from the phone to Sherlock. It seemed so obvious, how hadn’t anyone picked up on that? Why did it take a stranger from the street to find a lead that none of the detective’s in Scotland Yard could find?

“You said one of them wasn’t keen-?”

“Yes. Obvious again. Look at the spacing, one of them clearly wrote the note first and then the other was expected to fill the gaps. See how the word ‘warehouse’ is squished in, like there was barely space? So there’s clearly a ringleader and someone who is somewhat reluctantly following along. Really not that difficult, sergeant.”

Face heating in shame, Lestrade muttered his thanks and withdrew his phone back to his pocket. Sherlock still looked as terrible as he had done at the warehouse, perhaps worse. He seemed agitated, as he wrung his hands repeatedly and kept glancing at the door.

“Can I go now?”

Mind still reeling at how quickly Sherlock had handed him new information and new trails to explore, Lestrade grunted in approval and waved a hand indicating for him to let himself out. He stood nervously and opened the door before turning back to the sergeant.

“Where could I find the toilet?”

It seemed almost ridiculous to Lestrade that he was asking something so laughably normal after making Lestrade look a fool. 

“Down the corridor, to your left.”

* * *

  
Sherlock felt strangely guilty for shooting up in a police station toilet, but he had been desperate. Most of all he felt guilty for withholding information from the detective sergeant. Lestrade. He knew who had killed the man, but he was too selfish to share that information with the police. 

He’d recognised their handwriting almost immediately, and from there it hadn’t been too difficult to piece together. A sibling duo - Alexa and Elijah Cunningham. Notorious low-level suppliers, and consequentially also Sherlock’s dealers. Preferring to go to those further up the chain to reduce the contamination of the product, Sherlock rarely went to street dealers. The Cunninghams knew him well, and were keen to maintain his loyalty; they would sell him everything at its purest and would often cut prices to ensure his return. It worked for him and for them to be arrested would ruin years efforts and he would have to find somewhere else to go.

Before going to the station, he had stopped off at their home address to obtain what he had been searching for at the warehouse. The very same warehouse where they liked to make all their deals and trade-offs. He assumed this Kirwan character had stolen from them, and they arranged to get it back. Why the man had ended up dying, he didn’t know, though he had about four suspicions. Maybe he’d find out for himself at some point - he never could help feeling intrigued by criminal activity. 

Unfortunately now that warehouse had become the area of a crime scene, the Cunninghams would have to relocate. Sherlock would have relocate. 

The police had gotten in the way of what he had been trying to achieve at the warehouse, and thereby delayed the renewed rush he had ideally wanted hours ago. Withdrawal of this severity wasn’t something he had experienced in years, and so he had found himself at the Cunninghams practically begging them to sell to him. They seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits, and were happy to give Sherlock what he desired.

Not having the means to shoot up in the taxi ride to Scotland Yard, Sherlock was almost in tears by the time Lestrade was seemingly finished with him. It had seemed necessary at the time to find the closest bathroom possible, and it was only now that he regretted it. Lestrade had been kinder to him than anyone he had met in his life, and accommodating of the demands Sherlock had made - demands Sherlock knew were probably baffling to him. Sherlock had been shown compassion and he had returned the favour with lies and abusing his trust by using a police bathroom to shoot up.

Guilt was not something Sherlock was used to. He had not allowed himself to get close enough to people in years for it to even become a concern, and yet here he was mulling over the knowledge he possessed that could quickly and neatly tie up a murder case, and how he hadn’t shared it. How he was depriving someone - Annie - from ever knowing the truth about her boyfriend’s murder; depriving Lestrade of the chance to solve a case.

Sentiment. It was hateful.

* * *

**April 22nd 2005**

The case of William Kerwin had not been solved. They had exhausted every lead they had gotten so far, and were close to calling it off entirely. There was no security footage and Kerwin had been too isolated in the last weeks leading up to his death, which Lestrade believed probably indicated criminal activity or affiliations. Theft, given the context of the note.

Detective Inspector Gregson suggested they give up but Lestrade couldn’t stop thinking about the remarkable case and the strange man it had brought with it. The man who was both childish and mortifyingly intelligent, who had flourished in determining information from handwriting when he had only been asked to the police station for a few simple questions. Sherlock Holmes was remarkable in every sense of the word, and it almost seemed a shame he wouldn’t see him again. He wondered what the man could do with more time on the case. If he’d be able to solve it.

“Sergeant?”

Sally Donovan, a brand new and overeager employee, broke his pondering.

“Mmh? Yeah, what is it, Donovan?”

“There was a man outside. Just sitting there, he says you gave him permission to sit there, but I brought him into the lobby.”

While Donovan gleamed with pride, Lestrade had to keep himself from smiling. He could think of only one person to spout that kind of overconfident bullshit, the very same person he had been secretly wishing to encounter again.

“What does he look like?”

Donovan looked stricken, the response she had expected clearly ran in a separate vein to what Lestrade had actually asked. 

“Dark hair, kind of curly,” she said sullenly, almost pouting like a child, “Dirty. Rude.” she added, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Bring him in.”

“Yes, sir”

Donovan huffed and sulked away from him. Lestrade, too fixated on the idea that this seemingly impossible case was as good as solved, didn’t hear her muttering about police regulations and how _Gregson wouldn’t like this_.

* * *

  
Sherlock had made an unfortunate habit of visiting Scotland Yard whilst induced with opiates and guilt. Usually, he would pass by in a cab or on foot and look at all the windows, wondering if the kind detective was behind one of them. He knew they hadn’t solved the case or else he’d be out of suppliers, and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

Timing had evidently not been on his side today, he thought fighting a surge of abdominal pain outside Scotland Yard, heaped pitifully against a wall. Clearly, he’d stayed for too long and was greeted by an unpleasant, young detective demanding to know what he was doing. He’d lied through gritted teeth, attempting to display his favoured parody of indifference through a foggy mind. 

“I bet you think you’re really smart.” she smirked, arms folded confidently.

“I know for a fact I’m smarter than you,” Sherlock remarked, “And I should add, bringing me to Lestrade will not in any way boost his opinion of you. You’d be lucky if he knew your first name.”

The woman paused, crossed arms loosening and jaw drooping slightly. She recovered her composure quickly and glowered at him, fury bubbling beneath her brown irises threatening to boil over. 

“You don’t know anything” she huffed indignantly, but with a trace of hesitance. Of doubt. She still insisted on him following her through to the lobby and he’d complied, but only because disobeying would raise suspicion and he simply could not afford that. Grimacing as he stood, doing his best to mask his discomfort and anxiety, he shot the woman a baleful smile and walked inside with artificial purpose. Hands pocketed, head down.

“No.”

“Sorry- what?”

“I won’t help you.”

This time, Lestrade and Sherlock were in a different office. Lestrade had asked to borrow Gregson’s, in the hope that the plusher environment may be more enticing to the man. He hadn’t seemed to notice. Not that it seemed to matter anyway, Sherlock had no interest on assisting in the case. Mentally kicking himself for not realising there was an element of choice to this, he reassessed the impression he had formed of Sherlock from their sole encounter. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that this might happen, given Sherlock’s eagerness to see the evidence the last time. 

Lestrade watched Sherlock shifting uncomfortably in his seat - much in the same way he had done the other day - and decided to press further.

“Could you tell me why?” Lestrade breathed heavily, aware that this was his dead end. The sign he should surrender his pursuit in solving the case.

“I’m not a detective.” 

Lestrade hated to admit he made a fair argument. He knew he himself could get severely reprimanded for allowing a stranger into cases in the way he had considered doing with Sherlock. Surely, he had initially reasoned, the solving of more crimes would outweigh the slight disregard of the rules, but now he wasn’t quite as certain. 

“No, you’re not” Lestrade said carefully, choosing his next words to ensure optimal flattery - he _needed_ Sherlock on this case if they ever had a chance of solving it. “But you’re as good as one.”

“Better.” Sherlock muttered into his lap.

“Right yeah, better. You’re better than the lot of us and we need you.”

Sherlock gave a weak smile, and watched Lestrade for a couple of moments as if searching for something in his eyes. After longer than Lestrade was ideally comfortable with, Sherlock cleared his throat and met his eyes.

“May I be excused for a moment, I need to go.” Lestrade followed Sherlock’s eyes to the door to his left - the bathroom that connected to Gregson’s office. Shaking his head in disbelief, Lestrade only nodded mutely as the man stood and left the room.

Lestrade sat, head in hands, for a few moments, clueless at how to proceed. He knew there was little chance of the case being solved without Sherlock’s assistance, the entire department was thoroughly stumped on how to continue. How to find two people in the whole of London - or further - with nothing to go on but handwriting and some unknown connection to the victim. 

Raking a drained hand through his hair, Lestrade watched the clock above the door ticking. It had been a full ten minutes since Sherlock had gone in there, and Lestrade began to feel uneasy. Admittedly, the man had definitely still looked as peaky and unwell as he had done four days prior. Worse, even. He wondered if he was okay, whether something had happened in there.

Feeling slightly invasive and uncomfortable, he knocked on the door hesitantly. No response. He waited a few moments, feeling his blood pulse in his temples and the continued silence echoed ringingly in his ears. 

“Sherlock?” he tried. Lestrade hardly knew him well enough to be doing this, but something felt wrong somehow. His gut driving him to persist, not to leave it and wait, Lestrade tried the handle. Unlocked. The door inched open tauntingly, prolonging the unfounded trepidation Lestrade felt in his gut. 

No amount of preparation could have readied him for what he saw through the gaping door frame. Stunned, Lestrade’s heart plummeted like a stone into a frostbitten lake. His body became rigid, stiffening against the icicle that had just lodged itself in his chest. 

An array of equipment lay discarded to the side of Gregson’s sink. Sherlock was leaned up against the white wall tiling, head on his knees a pale arm extending out beside him, hand loosely balancing a used syringe between slender fingers. Even from this distance, Lestrade was easily able to see the distinctive bruising running down the man’s exposed forearm, and a new mark seeping blood like a broken faucet. Sherlock had not yet seen him so Lestrade dithered at the door, unsure of how to proceed or how to process the bombarding sensory input he was receiving all at once. 

“Those things’ll kill you.” Lestrade said gently, approaching Sherlock and crouching slowly in front of him, as one would approach a wounded wild animal. 

Sherlock’s head snapped upwards suddenly. Lestrade almost jerked backwards but held his composure and made eye contact with the man who was looking at him with absent, dilated pupils. He reached his hand out quietly, eyes willing Sherlock to cooperate with him. Eyes flicking between the open expanse of Lestrade’s palm and the syringe in his own, Sherlock quickly pressed the the syringe into the sergeant’s hand and hastily rolled down his sleeve. 

Almost instantly alert, Sherlock staggered abruptly to his feet and turned his attention to the remnants of evidence lying discarded on the bathroom counter. He began collecting it into the caverns of his pockets, completely ignoring Lestrade’s presence.

“I was going to clean it up,” Sherlock said in one breath.

“That’s- that’s less what I was concerned about, mate.” Lestrade said dejectedly, gazing with incredulity at the syringe Sherlock had handed him. The point still red with Sherlock’s blood, painting some of his palm scarlet. “Look, I’m going to have to report this… or something. It’s my job.”

“You won’t have to.”

“No, I do. It’s my job, Sherlock, I can’t just-”

Sherlock’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders, holding him the way a parent may reprimand a young child. The intensity at which his now dark eyes were sparkling paired with the unwarranted contact, startled Lestrade. He just found himself listening.

“File something by all means, or whatever you lot do,” Sherlock released Lestrade’s shoulder and waved a hand carelessly, “But rest assured all information will be wiped by tomorrow. Links inside the government, Sergeant, can prove to be _very_ useful.” 

Sherlock tapped the side of his nose knowingly, before turning and leaving the bathroom in one swaying fluid motion and repositioning himself with haughty elegance back in the chair he had previously occupied. Lestrade marvelled at Sherlock’s confidence in his government friend, at how happily he sat in the chair, legs strewn haphazardly across the arm rests.

Sitting again opposite Sherlock, the sergeant began typing onto his computer, before looking back up at Sherlock.

“I’ve got your file here, no criminal record. It’s completely clean.” The sergeant sat back in his chair.

“I told you, somebody wipes it all for me. You don’t really believe that I haven’t been arrested before?” 

“I suppose not.”

* * *

With everything that had transpired filed, Sherlock stood to take his leave. He held out a hand to the sergeant who shook it dubiously.

“This has been incredibly insightful, thank you Sergeant. Maybe I’ll see you around.” Sherlock smiled. It was manic and unnatural but there was an unmistakable genuineness to it that had Lestrade smiling somewhat uncertainly back. 

“Wait.” Sherlock waited. “Give me everything in your pockets.”

Sherlock turned back from the door, jaw set and scowling. With deliberate tedium, he removed everything one by one; a few plastic bags of undetermined substances, a silver spoon, two clean syringes, a lighter and a shoelace. 

“This was expensive,” he whined, pathetically wounded by the loss.

“Spend it better next time,” Lestrade suggested firmly, but with the same tenderness he would have in speaking to a young child laced in his tone, “You can keep the spoon if you want?”

“Forget it,” he muttered, “Goodbye Detective Sergeant Lestrade.”

* * *

Sure enough, when Lestrade got into the office the next day everything he had logged was entirely gone. Not a trace remained on file and Sherlock’s record was once again cleaner than even the average persons. Lestrade shook his head disbelievingly, whoever this mysterious friend was, Lestrade got the distinct sense he didn’t want to cross them. 

The Kirwan case ate away at Lestrade all throughout the day, and most importantly the thought of Sherlock himself. Surely as a detective he shouldn’t be surprised by much, but this was nagging away at his mind, relentlessly gnawing at his focus for anything else. He wanted Sherlock back; he couldn’t help but feel that Sherlock could - or had already - solved the case and was refusing out of sheer bloodymindedness. Lestrade was one for trusting his gut, it usually had good instincts and so a plan began to formulate in the corners of his mind.

  
Only hours later, Lestrade was filing the allegations against Sherlock again. Exactly the same as before. Except this time the response was quicker. Lestrade only had to go and get coffee before the data was once again wiped. 

This game went on for days. A constant cycle of Lestrade putting Sherlock into the system and each time he received the same response - his work deleted mysteriously. Each time the mystery figure became quicker. More agitated. Currently, they were down to 14 seconds between Lestrade inputting the data and the nameless person deleting it again. Lestrade relished the idea of winding up some pompous governmental figure somewhere. He was incredibly pleased with himself. Hopefully this elaborate plan would be enough to attract Sherlock’s attention.

On the fifth day Lestrade was met not with Sherlock but with a black car pulling smoothly up outside Scotland Yard. A priggish man stepped out onto the curb, a look of disdain plastered across his face as he peered at the building before him. It wasn’t until he asked to speak specifically with Lestrade that he twigged what had happened and he was absolutely delighted by it.

“Mycroft Holmes,” the magisterial man said, extending a hand to the detective with measurable disgust. “It seems you have taken a particular interest in wasting my time, and I have taken it upon myself to come here personally and request that you stop. I assume you met my little brother?”

“Your brother…?” Lestrade wasn’t entirely sure why he was surprised. Given the shared surname and the intelligence that they both clearly radiated he supposed it made sense, but Sherlock felt much more human than this frosty figure stood before him. He had a warmth that his older brother clearly didn’t possess.

Mycroft raised an impatient brow. “Yes, my brother. Who did you tell about-” he waved a hand, and Lestrade saw something distant and sad quickly pass over the man’s face. Distinct proof of his hidden humanity. Lestrade knew what he was attempting to articulate, cutting him off before he was forced to vocalise it.

“Nobody. I did enjoy winding you up though.”

Mycroft pulled a face, both incredulous and somewhat pleased. “Mmh, yes. Most amusing. You will stop now though.”

“Why?”

“Because I can offer something I think you would greatly appreciate.” 

“Which is?”

Leaning on a black umbrella, Mycroft’s eyes rested on Lestrade’s face in the same watchful manner that Sherlock had done. Clearly making people squirm ran in the family. 

“I know who killed William Kirwan.”

* * *

“You’re telling me Sherlock knew who the killers were and didn’t tell me?”

Mycroft nodded solemnly, “I’m afraid so, but you can see it was a selfish and calculated action on his part. He aimed to reveal just little enough to ensure his continued supply, but I’m sure he struggled with that. He always was so… emotional.” His nose wrinkled on the last word, as though it gave off a repulsive stench.

Irrationally, Lestrade felt betrayed. Hurt that Sherlock had, in its essence, lied to him. He knew it was illogical; they had barely known each other a week and yet Lestrade couldn’t shake the care he genuinely felt for the man. It was instinctive and unconditional, as though he had known him his whole life, and now he felt utterly humiliated that he had allowed himself to be taken into the whirlwind of Sherlock’s brilliance - and deceit.

“Okay, so who are they?” Lestrade forced him to focus his attention back to the task at hand. The job he should have been doing all along, instead of playing along with the fantasy of a genius that could solve anything for him. “The suppliers and killers?”

Two pictures were placed on the table and an address. A man and a woman, both somewhere in their thirties. Both conventionally attractive, with dark hair and quiet, cunning brown eyes. 

“Alexa and Elijah Cunningham. Siblings. They currently live here,” Mycroft placed a finger on the black scrawled address. Not too far from Scotland Yard. “I’d get Kirwan’s girlfriend to have a look at these pictures, I have a theory on the motivation I should like to test. Other than the fact our unfortunate, departed friend clearly stole some of their product, of course, that much is obvious. Here’s my number, tell me what you learn, I’d like to know if I’m right.”

“Okay,” Lestrade said tentatively, taking the card Mycroft held out to him, pinched between his first and second finger “Thank you.”

Mycroft only nodded and left the way he had come. 

* * *

Lestrade quickly had Gregson organise a team to arrest the Cunninghams, and easily managed to get Elijah to confess - he seemed pretty shaken up about it all, and claimed he’d only been following the instructions of his sister. Lestrade believed him, Alexa Cunningham was certifiably fiendish. Alexa, Lestrade suspected, would much rather have shot herself than have been sent to prison. She was wild, spitting and swearing as they brought her in - even Lestrade was hesitant to approach her.

Annie was brought back into the station and was shown the photos. Her face immediately paled when she saw them, and explained that Alexa had been William’s ex, who he had apparently described as insane on multiple occasions. As gently as possible, Lestrade explained to her that William had stolen a significant amount of the siblings’ supply of cocaine and was killed for it. Annie had wept and tearfully explained that she had not been entirely truthful before - that she had kept her boyfriends drug habit from them in fear of being prosecuted for not reporting it.

The case was less interesting than Lestrade had built up in his head. It was logical and straightforward, they just didn’t have the correct information available to them. So, in some way Sherlock inadvertently did solve the case for them. Without him he’d never have had access to the information Mycroft was eventually able to provide him with.

Even after everything was neatly tied up and Lestrade had texted Mycroft the conclusion - he didn’t respond, and Lestrade wasn’t sure whether to take that as him having gotten it right or wrong - Lestrade still was unsatisfied. Lestrade ought to feel overjoyed at his coincidental success, a perfect bow could have been tied around this supposedly unsolvable case, yet that lingering feeling of betrayal remained. The sense that, despite everything, Sherlock owed him some kind of an apology. 

And strangest of all, Lestrade wanted to see him again. Wanted to see the ridiculous man with the brilliant mind just one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> god writing the "those things'll kill you" line really did something to me. i'd like to think what sherlock said to lestrade after returning from the fall carried a secret weight, that we couldn't possibly know... until now ;)
> 
> also apologies for leaving this slightly openended but you know how it happened and how it turned out. clearly lestrade meets him again at some point (only i know what happens in that undetermined time, but i will address some of it within my lengthier fic so stay tuned for that!)
> 
> if you could leave a kudos or a comment i would be forever grateful! i hate not knowing how my writing is really received


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